Love Songs
by MyIndulgence
Summary: I'm so tired of love songs.


I used to listen to love songs. The varying times I would want music, it could have love in it. I was never a person who needed music to relate to me, simply be there with some nice lyrics and a beat to swing to for the few days I've gone out dancing. Now, I don't want to hear even a second of one. Every love song of missing someone grates at my heartstrings, making me want to smash whatever dares to remind me, all over again, of the person that isn't here anymore. I have to grit my teeth, biting back those useless tears. Weakness dribbling down my face for everyone to see gets me nowhere. I can't cry over it anymore. I would rather not have a reason to.

I should have died trying. Even given a chance to risk my life for his. This is Sherlock Holmes we're talking about, the annoying dick of a man who could save the world if the problem was interesting enough, but only if he wanted to. He could crumble nations and build up governments but he chose to be the one and only consulting detective, liking the title because he can be as much of an arrogant git as he wants since he is the only one. I shouldn't speak ill of the dead. The supposedly dead.

I sigh, gripping on the edge of the bus seat. The hope is gone. Sherlock Holmes is dead, in the ground, buried, and I couldn't do one bloody thing to help him. I just stood there on the ground and watched my best friend fall to his death. I didn't even tell him anything important. I could barely manage out a word because he…he was right there and I knew, I knew what he was going to do. Couldn't believe it, but I knew without a doubt. Sherlock was going to end it for reasons I still don't fully understand.

He's not a fraud. The thought in my head, even considering it, fell short in an instant. I know Sherlock, I've lived with Sherlock, and all those months couldn't have been an act. Years, really. It had been years before that day. The day that ended it all. If I had know Mrs. Hudson was fine, if Sherlock had just asked for my help, maybe he would still be here. At first, I was angry he felt he was too intelligent to need my assistance, but there was Moriarty, the one I know to be the true evil here, lying there with a bullet through his skull. Sherlock had faced off with the madman and ended up like this. Two dead. One in with angels while the other was the devil in physical form.

But who better to fight Sherlock? An ultimate enemy, the worst enemy of Sherlock's many, would have to be the evilest thing imaginable. Simple murderers, thieves, psychopaths, no, Sherlock's enemy would have to be the greatest there could be since he is the greatest. Was the greatest.

This all coming from a stupid love song. One I don't care to hear the words too. One invading my ears so forcefully that I want to rip it out of the man's possession and viciously smash it into oblivion. I could use some destruction but my hands tremble now, grief and lack of excitement swirling together until every physical ailment returning that Sherlock knew from the moment we met were all in my head. The song that won't stop playing keeps reminding me that in some way it was love. Was love. No, I got it right that time. I loved Sherlock like I haven't loved someone before. I knew I needed him and in some odd way I knew he needed me too. The assumption everyone seems to get about us being in a relationship still isn't true. I would never kiss Sherlock. It almost makes me smile a little because the thought of kissing the sociopath gave me a picture of his confused face, a question coming out of it that would remind me how many human elements he forgets how to understand.

I release another sigh, upon the millions before, and give into the lyrics, letting them fill my ears:

And I'll forget the world that I knew

But I swear I won't forget you

Oh, if my voice could reach

Back through the past

I'd whisper in your ear

Oh darling, I wish you were here

(Vanilla Twilight by Owl City)

Of course, now it would sound sad. It was just some sappy teenage sounding love story about vanilla and other things that people find romantic. I don't want romance anymore. I haven't been able to look a woman in the eye like that since the day.

Scarred. I'm John Watson and I'm scarred deeper than I felt I could have been. The war should have taken the toll that nearly destroyed me but that honor remains with Sherlock. He'd probably laugh at me, calling me an idiot for caring so much about another human being. All this sentiment that I hold so deeply. Not that he could really call himself a non-caring person. I know he cares, he finds happiness in other people's smiles, sees when he…I can't keep thinking about this. It's not cares, it's cared. It's not finds, it's found. He's gone and never coming back.

I'm so tired of love songs.

~SH~

John. John Hamish Watson, hasn't slept for his daily needed 6.4 hours in 2 weeks, refuses to go out with another woman in grief, hasn't cried in two days, eating what Mrs. Hudson brings him along with anything easy to consume: milk – likely meaning cereal. Not lazy, emotion stricken, unable to cope with the event.

…

I can't blame John for not being able to get over watching someone plummet off a roof. If he didn't, I would have miscalculated him completely. John really believes I am dead. It's disappointing but incredibly necessary for my next case. The case of a lifetime, destroying the web the spider left behind, making sure Moriarty's organization can never find a new leader or go on existing. Upon hearing John shift to stand, I looked down to the phone I was callously playing for everyone to hear. A song that makes me wish to replace it with a violin but a simple way to gauge John's reactions to such reminders.

I smiled as John passed me, his senses not picking up the subtle details that could tell him who I am and how close we are to touching. John will continue to not know until I can clear up the corruption of Moriarty but I won't leave him completely alone. I am a sociopath but I am not a monster. John had a therapist anyway, a psychosomatic limp, who knows what the new coping method his mind will try to come up with. I must be here just in case it's a very destructive one. Caring for the doctor? No, it's not caring. Just…observing. Closely. In every free moment I have.

No, I wouldn't call that love.

Simply focusing.


End file.
